


Invictus

by ThisIsMyTruthTellMeYours



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisIsMyTruthTellMeYours/pseuds/ThisIsMyTruthTellMeYours
Summary: OneShot. The young Albus Dumbledore is alone in his house at Godric's Hollow... Gellert has left. And Albus looks back on the chain of events that led him to this moment. Albus&Gellert Friendship.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Gellert Grindelwald
Kudos: 4





	Invictus

_**Disclaimer:** _ _The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

* * *

_"It matters not how strait the gate,_

_How charged with punishments the scroll,_

_I am the master of my fate,_

_I am the captain of my soul."_

_**Invictus, by William Ernest Henley** _

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was alone.

Accustomed to walking quickly through the halls of his family home, ignoring the plurality of locked doors, eager to find himself somewhere else; anywhere else. Albus had never noticed the size of his family's property. It was but a cottage, after all, within a few miles of what was then a small village named Godric's Hollow, but it seemed remarkably large to his eyes now that he had it all to himself.

The silence was indisputable, uninterrupted as it was but for the crackling fire consuming logs of wood in the fireplace. The flames shed a flickering light over the weathered wallpaper and books gathered dust on the shelves. A pair of half-moon spectacles lay forgotten over the top board of an upright piano placed in a living room that barely fit the instrument. The orderly manner in which everything was arranged seemed to mock him. If the room could have expressed the feelings that overpowered him, the piano keys would be screaming in pain and despair.

Albus was part of that scene. He sat, or rather lay forlorn, on a chair by the window, his lean figure silhouetted by the greyish sky outside. His form looking sickly and fragile rather than elegantly built, dressed in unkempt garments chosen without care. His overly loose cotton shirt was unbuttoned just below the collar, exposing his pale chest to the breeze coming from the skylight overhead, and the long sleeves extending over his fingers as he attempted to brush aside some strands of hair from his face.

He was not so far away from the fire as to not feel its warmth, and yet he shivered. The nearly empty bottle of fire whisky on the floor was proof that at some point Albus had used alcohol to keep warm, or at least that he had tried to. But that had been several days ago or perhaps several hours that seemed like a whole lot more. He'd lost all track of time.

He held a journal in his left hand and a quill in the other. It was a beautiful witting tool, a long red feather, held a few centimetres away from the page, it's metallic point black with dry ink. Dry for he would repeatedly dip it into the inkwell and hold it above the parchment, as if uncertain what to write, time and time again. Every now and then, he turned his bright blue eyes from the parchment to the glowing red of the phoenix's feather.

Albus used to strip his quills of their barbs, generally regarding them as unnecessary distractions. Although he couldn't be sure as to what had kept him from robbing that particular plume of its beauty, the young wizard doubted he would have been able to write anything more than the date on the top of the page even if he hadn't felt the soft touch of the plumage against his skin.

A clap of thunder roared outside. Albus had watched the clouds building up for hours, turning the sky progressively darker, until it reached the verge of a violent storm which insisted upon announcing itself, but refusing, however, to fall. Does it make sense? At this point he only wished for the storm to silence the poisonous thoughts in his mind, but at a blink of those bright blue eyes Albus was lost in memories one more time.

XxXxXxXx

He had not been happy in this house. Laughably enough, though, it was the only home he could remember. He was not that young when the Dumbledores left Mould-on-the-Wold all those years ago, but so many events had taken place during their last days there, and in such quick succession, that he could only really remember them in vague flashes of images. But nothing from before those last few weeks.

His father, of course, would never step foot in Godric's Hollow. He'd been taken to Azkaban prior to their moving, and that's where he'd die. Percival did not attempt to conceal his crime. He had no plead other than guilty, and he did not resist the ministry law enforcers when they came for him.

Albus had known they were coming. He didn't know exactly who 'they' were, but he had overheard his parents' conversations on the matter and he had stood by the window the entire day, long hair tied back in an elegant ponytail to keep it from his face, wondering what would happen when they finally arrived.

"They are here, father."

Percival said nothing. He stood up, paying no regard to the wife whose hands had been on his shoulders, and walked out the front door, leaving it open behind him. He didn't look back when Kendra called his name, extending her arm in the air as if she could stop him from leaving from the gesture alone. He didn't see her holding her trembling hands to her lips in an attempt to smoother the sound of her sobs. He didn't glance at his eldest son, standing thunderstruck, as if waiting for someone to say it had all been a terrible joke. He never looked back.

Aberforth came downstairs as soon as their father had left, and when the handcuffs were magically placed over Percival's wrists the younger boy broke down crying, hiding his face in his mother's skirts; her hand, wet with tears of her own, pressed tight to his narrow back. She was not going to attempt to deceive him into believing everything was going to be okay. Kendra knew better.

Thinking about it, she had never really believed that Percival would ever get out of prison. And perhaps that's why she couldn't bear to live in that house any longer. Kendra had no living relatives, other than her children, and no one to turn to in times of trouble. She learned her husband's business, as there was no other choice, and sold everything they had to buy that cottage in the distant village of Godric's Hollow. Godric's Hollow was one of those few places where wizards had settled in relatively large numbers, and she wouldn't have to worry about what occurred to her daughter ever happening again.

A woman in her thirties who lacked the male companionship of a brother or a husband would always be looked upon with distrust in the misogynous years of the late nineteenth century, but Kendra had the burden of being the wife of a convicted murderer added to her shoulders. It was not surprising that she hardly visited the village at all and mostly kept to herself, talking to no one but Miss Bagshot who lived nearby.

Miss Bagshot was a few years older than Mrs Dumbledore, and she too was in position of being a single woman in a world ruled by men. Perhaps that's the reason they understood each other so well.

Be that as it may, the sadness and pain of the family tragedy robbed Kendra of her youth. Her dark hair, always arranged in a severe bun, had been dyed gray by time and the carved aspect of her facial features, which had been considered formally composed once, gave place to nearly constant dark rings below her eyes. Kendra had never meant to raise her sons without a father, and the loving mother she might have been had she not been made harsh by circumstance disappeared under the burden of added

responsibilities.

The inattention of his mother did not go unnoticed by Albus. Before long, the boy looked for excuses not to be home, and that's how he found his way into Miss Bagshot's library. He was a brilliant student - dedicated, smart - and yet his mother barely acknowledged him at all. Perhaps she thought that, being so intelligent himself, Albus didn't need her as much. Soon he would find the recognition he'd yearned for, and his resentment towards his mother would turn to indifference.

Indifference. Divided between the urge to burst into laughter or break down in tears, Albus Dumbledore didn't move in his chair by the window. He remembered the day, only a few months back, when he learned his mother had died, and the indifference he had felt at the news.

Aberforth, his common and unremarkable brother, extraordinary only in his own ordinariness, was overcome with grief. He mourned their mother's death in a way Albus never could.

He was not sad or surprised; he was not going to miss her, he'd been on his own for a very long time. But he was angry. Angry that her death transferred her responsibilities to him; angry that his future had to be postponed so he could be the head of a family he wanted desperately to leave behind; angry that he had been chained to Godric's Hollow when all he wanted to do was walk away and never look back.

Albus had just graduated from Hogwarts, after all, with outstanding N.E.W.T.s as was expected of him, and he had plans for the traditional tour of the continent with Elphias. He wanted to travel the world and see its wonders; to perform magic in different places; to get acquainted with different people; to discover long lost secrets. To just live, for once, and experience all the things he'd only ever read about. And then one day he woke up and he was the head of his family, responsible for his brother's education and for so much more-

Some part of him knew that was selfish. Some part of him knew nothing could justify his anger towards his own mother, and that part of him was ashamed. Too ashamed to even write about any of those thoughts in his journal, but not enough to deny them to himself.

What did it matter what he thought or felt, anyway?

A brilliant young man of nineteen whose immediate future had been involuntarily attached to an unremarkable village would delight in any opportunity for pleasant conversation, as well as in the company of like-minded peers. But Albus could not have expected either of those things when he first met Gellert.

"I came to call on you, since you seem to have forgotten your manners, young man! It's been weeks since you've stopped by my house. That's no way to behave with an old lady, Albus," Bathilda Bagshot said loudly almost as soon as Albus had opened the door.

"I apologise, Miss Bagshot. I've been somewhat preoccupied," Albus bowed his head slightly, stepping aside for her to walk in, but the old woman lifted his chin and placed a hand on the side of his face, to look at him closely.

"Oh, that's all right, that's all right. I just worry about you, poor boy, since- How have you been?" She scrutinized his face, as if trying to make sure everything was in order. "You look thin. Have you been eating properly?"

"Yes," Albus took her hand between his own, more trying to keep her from his face than anything else, "Everything is all right, Miss Bagshot. Thank you."

It was only then that somebody else walked into the hall.

He was a young man, about as old as Albus himself. Tall and athletic with a wild quality to his face and a nearly imperceptible smile in his lips. Albus couldn't help but notice he was exquisitely handsome, as the stranger took his place one step behind Miss Bagshot, looking Albus in the eye and not bothering to introduce himself at all.

"Oh, this is my nephew, Gellert. He's just come to visit from Durmstrang. Dreadful school, you should meet the authors of the history books they use!" The old woman made the introductions, seeming a bit exasperated.

Gellert lowered his head, staring at his shoes. Golden strands of hair fell over his eyes as he laughed silently and openly for a few seconds, before lifting his head once more to meet Albus' eye and stating, in a low voice:

"You'll have to forgive the passion of my aunt's arguments, she dreads the post-revolutionaries."

"With good reason," Albus remarked, intrigued by the new acquaintance in a way he hadn't been for anything in a long time.

"I told you Albus was a sensible young man!" Miss Bagshot stated authoritatively. "He knows his History, yes, he does!"

The two boys laughed.

"Thank you, Miss Bagshot. May I offer you a cup of tea?" Albus inquired.

"I thought you'd never ask!" She turned and walked towards the living room. Albus headed to the kitchen instead to pick up the tea tray and, to his astonishment, Gellert followed.

"In all fairness," the boy said, and Albus tried to conceal his surprise "my aunt has been telling me a lot about you."

"All good things I hope?" The young Dumbledore answered honestly, though somewhat automatically.

"Do you really?" Gellert asked back smiling, something like trickery and daring in his expression. Albus couldn't help but smile as well.

As a rule, Albus enjoyed Miss Bagshot's visits. The old woman always briefed him on her latest research topics, and she seemed to value his take on every single one of them. They could go for hours and hours discussing an article in the Periodic: History of Magic, and such long talks generally got his mind out of his troubles. The only unpleasant aspect of her visits was her insistent habit of bringing a box of every-flavoured beans for them to share. She thought it was the most "jovial" of all sweets, and enjoyed the mystery surrounding the flavour until the moment the candy touched her tongue, but one way or another, Albus always seemed to pick the most unpleasant ones.

"You see, I read a book, about forty-odd years ago, which didn't mention the Wars of Giants at all! The author- what was her name? - completely disregarded the Wars as a relevant factor in the development of European magic covenants!"

"I do not agree," Albus objected. "If it wasn't for the battle of Gotenburgh, the Giants would never have gone back to the mountains and given up on fighting wizards for camping spots."

"Don't you think you overestimate the giants as an enemy?" Gellert interjected. "Even if they had not gone back, I don't believe their intellect would pose a formidable opponent in battle."

"The matter with giants was never one of intellect-"

"I know, they are resilient, but what does that matter with the proper set of charms?"

Albus smiled, delighting in finding someone whose arguments were opposed to his, and yet still contained valid points.

"I see we shall not readily agree on this subject," he remarked, and his counterpart answered with a smile.

"My nephew is too confident in the power of his own wand. But even magic is not invincible Gellert. You ought to remember that, _both of you",_ Miss Bagshot interveined. "Oh, by this time we'd be taking some of those marvellous coloured beans, wouldn't we Albus? But my infuriating nephew strongly objected to them."

"I didn't know you enjoyed them!" Gellert explained, as if apologising. "I haven't quite gotten used to British sweets, and I just don't see the appeal in chewing cement flavoured beans!"

"It's quite all right," Albus laughed, unable to say that he too didn't particularly enjoy Bertie Botts' famous recipe either. "Perhaps I could serve you some biscuits, Miss. Bagshot, I'm sure there must be- -"

The sound of something incredibly heavy hitting the ground twice came from upstairs, and the eyes of those present gazed towards the staircase. Albus' heart beat quickened as he desperately hopped no other sound would disturb his guests.

"Is everything- Under control, Albus?" Miss Bagshot inquired, plenty implied in her words.

"Yes. It's- probably nothing," the young Dumbledore recovered from his surprise in time, and spoke with a somewhat detached tone. Gellert looked intrigued, but he was discreet enough not to ask anything.

"Oh- I must be going anyway. My favourite program on WWN is about to start, I ought not to miss it. No, no Gellert-" she signalled her nephew not to stand up. "Don't be impolite, you must stay and help young Albus with the dishes," the witch pointed at the empty mugs on the tea tray. "No, no- you'd just stand in the way of me listening to my soaps anyway! Goodbye, Albus, dear. Bye."

And wrapping herself in her cloak, the old woman left the house, before either could get up, showing surprising speed for her age, leaving the two young men on their own..

Before Albus could say anything, Gellert pointed his wand at the tray and twisted it rapidly so that in a fraction of a second everything had disappeared.

"Everything's been cleaned up and placed on your kitchen counter, he explained, putting his wand back in his belt. "I thought that would save us some time so we could take a walk through the countryside. It's a beautiful day."

Albus smiled again, disarmed, and picked up a cloak to leave.

"I do not know many people who would agree with you that this is a beautiful day," Albus said as soon as the two of them had stepped out of the cottage, looking up at the sky. There were plenty of greyish clouds already, and more of them mounted up slowly every minute.

"I do not believe you've met many Scandinavians before," he brushed some hair from his forehead. "Besides, it's not going to rain."

They walked for a very long time, talking about a wide variety of subjects, until they reached the creek many miles away. The battles of the Wars of Giants, Miss Bagshot's appreciation for every flavour beans, and even the colours of the flowers in their way became a source of conversation between the two boys. Albus couldn't remember being as comfortable around anybody as he was with Gellert. He listened as much as he talked, and he was never bored, never tired, he didn't have to tiptoe around his companion or refrain himself from saying anything that came to his mind. And Gellert didn't seem any less comfortable around him.

Eventually they reached the creek, and, deciding to stop there for a while, sat on the green grass, Albus with his back against a tree and Gellert with his elbows on the ground supporting the weight of his body. His cloak fell to the side and the British youngster got another look at his wand.

"The handle of your wand is very beautiful."

"Thank you," Gellert pulled it from his belt, sliding a finger over the patterns engraved in the wood. "It's Gregorovitch's work. He was a craftsman for many years before his master would allow him to work with wands. At least that's what everybody says."

"Well- Everybody I ever knew in Hogwarts had purchased their wands from Olivander. I bought my wand in his shop. It's got a phoenix feather core. Olivander's wands always have either a feather from a phoenix, a hair from a unicorn's tail or a string from a dragon's heart."

"Just three core components? I've never known Gregorovitch to follow such a strict rule. This wand has the hair from a thestral's mane as its core."

It took a while for him to look up at Albus and, after a brief moment of hesitation, he handed his wand to the British boy. Dumbledore slid his fingers over the instrument, admiring the obvious care applied in its construction.

"I've always found something appealing about craftwork but ever since I finished school I've been trying to improve on my skills without the aid of a wand," he gave Gellert his wand back.

"That's useful, but still-" he spun the instrument between his fingers. "There so much in a wand."

Albus watched him carefully for a second, trying to read the implied meanings in those words. No more than a second, though.

"Do the professors not forbid you to play with your wands like that in the north?"

He pointed at the wand Gellert was currently spinning.

"The east."

"East?"

"East. There are no schools of magic in the whole of Scandinavia. That's why I travelled to Eastern Europe and became a pupil at Durmstrang."

"Indeed?"

"Yeah- I- I didn't finish."

"You're on holiday?"

"No, they- they expelled me."

Albus' jaw dropped in disbelief. It took him a second to realize he was not being polite.

"Perhaps you should have come to Hogwarts," he suggested after a while. "I've never heard of anybody getting expelled from Hogwarts."

It would always be like that, between the two of them. They'd always known which questions to ask one another, and which questions not to.

"I doubt your British professors would have been any more tolerant of my private experiments than Durmstrang masters were," Gellert explained.

It was not difficult to notice he resented his old school for robbing him the opportunity of formally graduating, and that he wouldn't tell just anybody he'd been expelled. In fact, it was the first time he'd mentioned the subject since he'd arrived in England. But that conversation with Albus, that first walk across the countryside was one of those rare situations in which the interlocutor was such a kindred spirit that trust is established almost instantly, personal topics emerge naturally and you tell the truth, simply because it's important that – if nobody else – that person gets a glimpse of who you really are inside. Was it not a British author who said: 'Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others'?

"I thought you said it wasn't going to rain!" Albus felt heavy drops of water fall on his face

"I thought it wasn't!" Gellert exclaimed, delighted that they could switch from personal topics to light conversation in such a natural manner.

"I'll race you back!" Albus dared his Scandinavian companion.

"You don't know who you're challenging, sir!"

And they ran back, under the heavy rain, only to find themselves wet and breathless standing over the mat at the Dumbledore's front door.

"I've had a great time, Albus. Thank you," Gellert smiled. "I must return to my aunt's house now."

"Of course. I enjoyed your company, Gellert. I wish-"

"We will do this again."

There was so much certainty in his voice!

"Now, my British friend, if you'll excuse me," he smiled again, and with a flit of his cloak, he disappeared.

Gellert's golden hair was the last thing Dumbledore saw before his new friend faded away into thin air. And it was inevitably the only image on his mind when he lay in bed that night.

Gellert came over the next day, then the day after that, and the next. He became a daily visitor, and Albus became dependant upon his company. They walked through the countryside and into the village; they went swimming in the creek; they stayed inside and played wizards chess for hours listening to the thunder raging outside. They felt like there was nothing they couldn't do, and nothing they wanted to do without the other.

Before long the legend of the deathly hallows came up, and each of the youngsters were amazed that the other one believed the verity of the story and shared the dream of uniting them. They agreed to go on that search together, and together they drew plans for the world they would someday build. Many things were out of place, but they would fix it all, and when they were done the world would be a better place.

"You don't give up, do you?" Gellert asked, unpacking his gift, a thick scarf, sewn by goblins in red and gold. The colours of Gryffindor.

"I'd rather think of that as an elegant persistence," Albus smiled at him, watching his friend wind the scarf around his neck.

"Well," Gellert put his arms down, placing his hands into his pocket, "we both agree it is elegant."

The Scandinavian might have been a character from a book by Dickens, dressed like that.

"I think I've explained Hogwarts' house system pretty thoroughly, did I not?"

Albus had. The system of dividing students into groups that would stimulate healthy competition was very British and strange to Gellert, who entertained the thought of attempting to guess which would be his house if he ever attended Hogwarts.

"Of course you did! And you will be happy to know I've changed my mind, and we are definitely not Ravenclaw material."

"Of course I'm not! I was sorted years ago, Gellert!"

"Oh, I know. But you used your devious eleven-years old manipulation skills to maneuver that hat into not placing you in Slytherin."

"Slytherin, of all houses!"

"No, Albus, I'm just annoying you!" Gellert punched his friend in the arm, and almost immediately placed an arm over his shoulder, walking alongside Albus. "I truthfully believe Godric Gryffindor must had been eating to many bad-flavoured beans when he decided to assign a hat to judge the character of prospective students, and I still think summarising a person in one word – one trait for that matter- is too limited a way of thought!"

"Oh, and the Durmstrang way is better?"

"Well, every dormitory is meant for no more than two students, and all the uniforms are the same."

"Just like crewmen in a ship-"

"At least we don't have to worry about anybody else bothering us in our quarters!"

"Major Grindelwald-" Albus started, a mocking tone in his voice, "how could I disagree?"

The two youngsters laughed for a while, and Gellert let go of his friend's shoulders, walking from one side to the other as Albus allowed his body to fall into a chair.

"I still don't understand what I did to deserve this scarf."

"Perhaps I do not need an excuse to give you something nice."

"Perhaps you don't-" Gellert looked at his friend curiously. "But I do need to reciprocate."

"No!"

"Yes! Come on, Albus, I know just what you need! Stand up, we're going somewhere!"

(…)

"I cannot believe you brought me to carnival!"

"You've never been to one before-" Gellert explained. "Very soon we won't have time for these small get-aways, Albus. We must make the most of the time we have. Oh look!"

"What?"

"A divination booth!"

"Divination? You must be joking."

"Not at all."

"Absolutely not."

"Albus. Both of us know it's all humbug; why can't we listen the prediction and have a laugh?"

"I honestly can't think of an answer." Dumbledore said, as his Norse friend pushed him into the tent where an old man sat over a tall bench, and asked Albus to give him his left hand.

"I see. A long, long life, interrupted abruptly around here, yes. You are strong, young man, very strong indeed."

"Am I?" Albus asked impatiently. He had always been a little uneasy around muggles, for obvious reasons.

"Yes! And so intelligent! So wise. I see here that you are hardly ever wrong! Interesting..."

"Who knew-" Gellert whispered in his ear. "Maybe there are real palm readers."

Albus restrained himself from hitting Gellert with his right elbow.

Grindelwald was still smiling when they left the divination booth, and however cross Albus was he still insisted it had been fun. The two boys walked through the crowd of muggles who had attended the carnival and, although he had not stopped to consider that, it was the first time Albus had seen himself walking at ease in the midst of so many ordinary people.

"I never did take divination, you see. I fail to understand the point."

"The point? Well, if nothing else it's amusing to allow a crippled old man to stare at your palm and babble about your future," Gellert insisted.

"Yes, but I meant- The point of divination as a whole. I am not sure it's a good thing to look into the future. I mean, even if we actually could."

At that point, a young woman stopped them and offered some kind of sweet, a caramelized apple on a stick, and Gellert accepted two of them - one for Albus, one for himself. He didn't pay, of course. Neither of them had gone into details, but Albus just assumed he used a non verbal confundus spell on the woman... Be that as it may, the apples were deliciously sweet.

"I don't believe you mean that," Grindelwald resumed the conversation once they were far from the park. They sat on the grass in a large green field, the kind of landscape an impressionist might choose for his paintings.

"Mean what?"

"About the future, about not being sure if seeing it would be advantageous."

"Well... Of course I can understand some advantages. Like during a war, being able to see the moves your opponent will make might allow you to better prepare, but still. You forget that in seeing the future one might see things that he does not like."

"Well if you do, you can change that."

But Abus fell quiet for a moment, and looked away into the horizon and to the imminent sunset.

"What if I told you I could show you a piece of your future, Albus?"

"I'd tell you to wake up," Albus said jokingly, though in his mind he knew that, if someone could ever do that, it was probably Gellert.

"Well, I'm wide awake, British boy. And I've got something to show you," he sat up slightly and satsupported the weight of his torso onto his elbows, half way between sitting and lying down, while reaching into his pocket for something.

It turned out to be a folded magazine page. It was from a magazine he'd seen lying around before. The page had a beautiful picture on it, landscapes of a distant place.

"I thought maybe we could go there," Gellert said

"Go here?" Albus asked, his eyes still examining the page in his hands.

"Yes. We have never gone out of town together, it's not far and I think, I think it would be great-"

"I don't know if I could be away for that long. We'd have to wait till Aberforth gets back from school, I think—" Albus was lost in his musings. Gellert didn't ask any questions. He didn't know his friends' reasons, but he knew Albus was extremely uncomfortable going into details... He merely shrugged.

"It doesn't matter if it takes time; I only want us to get away for a while. These mountains are not too far north, and there are rumours that the Peverells travelled through these roads."

Dumbledore looked up at him.

"You think we should start the search already?" He was somewhat surprised.

"No, there's nothing there. I've been there already-" Gellert dismissed the idea. "I just thought... Well, it's a beautiful landscape, and we do need to plan our search more carefully. Maybe a different place, different airs, will bring us the inspiration we seem to need. Besides, if we're really going to do this we'll be travelling together for a very long time. It would be nice to see if you can stand being my travelling companion for a few days before we attempt to do it for several years.

Dumbledore smiled. Somehow, he felt he was being rewarded for coming back to Godric's Hollow; for looking after Ariana. He had always wanted to travel the world, but if he had gone with Elphias it wouldn't be half as great as travelling alongside Grindelwald certainly would be. And that was the only thing on his mind when he answered:

"I think it would be perfect."

That was not the first time they lay down in that field to watch the sunset. In fact, during those first few months, they met every single day and talked for hours. They got to known each other, like perhaps nobody else would ever know either of them, and they enjoyed each other's company, dreaming of the glorious future ahead and of the great things they would accomplish together.

Still, it took Gellert all that time to learn what Albus' voice sounded like when he was scared.

"Gellert! Gellert, upstairs!"

He'd never been to the second floor of his friend's cottage, and he certainly had never been called by Albus with so much urgency, but he ran with everything he had, following the sounds of heavy objects crashing against the walls of a room whose door he'd never seen opened before.

"Albus, where are you?"

He froze. There was a girl in the room; a blond girl, several years younger than himself, levitating a few inches from the floor, her eyes closed, her hair untidy, and she seemed to be sending some sort of 'reducto' spell all over the place.

"Stupefy!" Gellert yelled.

The red flash from his wand hit the little girl in the flank, and she dropped motionless in the ground. The shelves stopped exploding around them and Gellert ran towards Albus, staunching the blood dripping from his nose with his wand.

"Albus-"

"Gellert- This- This is my sister."

However surprised he was, Grindelwald stopped Dumbledore from saying anything else before he could attend to his wounds. He fixed Albus' broken arm with a simple spell, applied an anaesthetizing charm over his bruises, and removed the dry blood from his face and hands with a Tergeo.

"Do you still feel any pain?" He asked seriously, almost like a physician caring for an injured patient.

"No," Dumbledore stared at the floor.

There was much to say, but nothing was said as Gellert helped Albus up and they walked downstairs to the living room. The silence was not broken as the British boy prepared them a cup of tea, and it was only when Dumbledore sat in front of Gellert, the fire lit, his hands warm by the hot cup of tea he was holding that he told Gellert the story. He told him everything; everything that had happened all those years ago; everything he could remember. And, oh, he remembered it so vividly. The faces of the muggle boys, the bloodied clothes of his sister, torn apart in several places, the voice of his father cutting the air like a blaze:

"Crucio!"

"Albus?"

He'd lost himself in thought for a few seconds when that particular memory came to mind.

"They hurt her just because she was different. She was too small to control her powers, and they saw it, so- In any case, after that, Ariana lost complete control over her mind. She never spoke again, and sometimes she bursts out like- like what you saw upstairs."

"I see-"

"She's my responsibility, but I- Only Aberforth can make her calm down, so as soon as he's done with school I'm -"

He was leaving. He didn't want to be in that house anymore; he didn't want to be responsible for Ariana. He'd postponed too much for her already. He'd delayed his whole future for a younger sister with no future at all, and he resented her for it; just like he'd once resented his mother for imposing a disabled sister over him, striping Albus from making his own choices. He resented his sister for being in the back garden that day; for being so vulnerable to those muggle boys. He resented her for not being strong enough to recover. He resented her for the instability of her mind. He resented her for not turning out to be the beautiful young woman who would become his friend and partner; the baby sister he would protect from unsuitable boyfriends; the brilliant companion Aberforth could never have been. He resented it all.

"Leaving," Albus completed his sentence, raising his bright blue eyes to Gellerts' face not a second before he felt the other boy's right hand on his shoulder.

"We'll be leaving, Albus. Together."

"Together," he repeated, and in that moment there was no doubt in his mind.

Soon after that incident, Aberforth came back home. Albus and his brother had never been close. The truth was that Aberforth had disappointed him in so many ways; he had never been his peer, his companion, someone who understood him and trusted him. Gellert was all of those things. Aberforth, on the other hand, was unremarkable. His only talent seemed to be calming down their sister's rages. In fact, she lay on his lap in the living room the very day Albus and Gellert told him they were planning on taking a trip together.

But Aberforth had been listening in on their plans. He'd stolen Albus' journal and read about what they intended to do, the places they intended to go, and he knew Albus was too impatient to wait for him to finish school. Wherever they were going, they intended to take Ariana along, and he wouldn't accept that.

To describe the struggle that followed would be more than Albus could bear. As he closed his eyes, sat on his spot over the window, he remembered the flashes of light coming from their wands, hitting the walls, hitting the windows. Albus remembered the angry voice of Gellert defending him against Aberforth.

"You should grow up, Aberforth, and quit being a petulant child. You are jealous of your brother, you have always been, and that's why you use Ariana as an excuse to keep him tied to this house when he could be out conquering the world. You know that! Albus could be anywhere he wanted to be, but you have him here, and you rejoice in that, because you know you could never do what Albus can!"

"You're insane!" Aberforth protested, and however harsh Gellert's words may have sounded, Albus said nothing. Those were, after all, his own thoughts, his own repressed emotions, bursting out through his friend's mouth.

Even when Gellert used the Cruciatus Curse, Albus was confused. After all, Gellert was protecting him. And it was only the memory of Aberforth as a little kid that made Albus turn his wand to Gellert in an attempt to make him stop.

He was no older than six years old at the time and, in spite of his eight o' clock bed time, he used to remain awake for hours, reading under the light of a magical candle by his bed side. He particularly enjoyed doing so on stormy nights, with thunder roaring outside his window, and it was on a night like that that Aberforth knocked on his door.

He was much smaller than Albus, even if there was barely more than a year of difference between their births, and he held a teddy bear in his hands. It looked like he'd been crying.

"Albus," he asked in a thin voice "I dreamed of monsters under my bed. Can I sleep with you tonight?"

And because it felt right at the time, he'd said yes.

"There is plenty of space."

He remembered looking down at Aberforth, watching him fall asleep and feeling – at the early age of six years old – that it was his job to protect his younger brother. It was the memory of that night that came to Albus' mind as Aberforth's screams cut the night, and it was that memory which made him wish Gellert's wand was pointed towards him instead.

But it wasn't, and in the duel that followed, somebody else was hit. Ariana. And they all knew instantly that the girl had been killed, though they didn't know by whose spell. Aberforth lay on the ground, every inch of his sixteen years old body in pain as a result of the unforgivable curse. He held his sister's motionless body in his arms and cried desperately, blaming both his brother and Gellert for stripping him of the one person in the world he truly loved.

For a while, Albus and Gellert stood there, holding their wands and staring at one another, thousands of unspoken works adding tension to the silence. A minute went by – or perhaps several hours – until Gellert lowered his wand, turned his back, and walked away.

_I could have stopped him._

Laying lorn on a chair by the window, the fire whiskey bottle by his feet, seemingly a little bit more empty than it had been a few minutes before, Albus couldn't stop himself from remembering that night and the obvious implications. The same thought kept recurring on his mind: _I could have stopped him._

It had been confusing. He remembered staring at Gellert in this very room. He knew all his friend had done, even the curse on his brother, had been to protect him. In the end, Gellert really wanted Albus by his side. But he had hurt his little brother; perhaps killed his little sister. And Dumbledore could no longer go with him, anymore than he could use his wand to hurt Grindelwald.

But there was more. When Grindelwald walked out of their cottage that nigh there had been great deal more than just the two of them at stake. Albus knew he would continue with their plan, he would continue to pursue the greater good, and the things they had planned to do together Gellert would find a way to do alone. But he'd had no idea there would be so many consequences; or had he?

By consequences, of course, he meant the things written in the newspapers scattered all over the table in the kitchen and the larger sofa behind him, overflowing onto the nearby. News from the east, lists of missing people, of ruined buildings, of the trail of destruction Gellert had left behind him in his pursue of the greater good. Hundreds of people had already been killed, and Dumbledore knew, more than anybody, that there would be a great deal more. He also knew he might be the one causing those deaths.

_In any search for knowledge there are always unintended consequences._ He remembered Gellert saying precisely those words back when they were discussing their plans, and Albus couldn't help but wonder if he had known back then that such consequences meant the deaths of so many people. He would be lying if he said no, but at the time, it hadn't seemed to matter.

Of course, he had known Gellert better than any journalist ever could. When the newspaper said a dozen people had been killed, he knew they'd probably been tortured and killed, discarded once there was no more use for them. Each name on those lists of casualties had suffered what Aberforth would have if Albus had not been there to stop it.

Albus had known that. He had known what would happen when Gellert walked away from his house that night. He knew Gellert was going to do what he had done to Aberforth to more people, and Albus hadn't tried stop him. He hadn't moved. He had watched him go; he had even been hurt because he had wanted to go along so badly! And so every one of the deaths listed in the newspaper was his fault just as much as it was Grindelwald's.

The Scandinavian wizard had left the scarf Dumbledore had given him behind, and Albus had that same scarf wrapped around his neck now; not so much because it was cold but because he wanted – and he was not proud of that – to remember Gellert's scent. A scarf knitted in the colours of Gryffindor, the house of the brave.

It had taken until Dumbledore had reached his early twenties for him to understand what the Sorting Hat meant when it mentioned the word 'courage'. It was much more than just a word, like Gellert had suggested. It was not the guts to go into the dark forest, or to climb the astronomy tower after midnight. It was not the determination to pursue the greater good in spite of the consequences. It was having the will to do the right thing, even if it meant pointing your wand at a friend. Even if it meant pointing your wand at the one person you had ever- loved. In his early twenties, the brilliant Albus Dumbledore finally understood what courage was all about.

It had been his first test. And he had failed.

* * *

_**A/N:** This story has been Beta read by DolbyDigital and Lemniscate35173. Thank you for your patience to answer all my silly little questions (not to mention reading this long tale). The story would be very different without you._

_I really like this story... I wrote it a while ago and now, when I read it again, some bits of it sound a bit odd/awkward (like the epitaphs to describe one or other of them; ie 'his Norse friend', the British boy', the British youngster'. This has been pointed out in a review, and I quite agree). Be that as it may, I have plans to get back to this and chose better words but not just now. And it doesn't bother me enough to remove the story. I really like this one. I remember writing the first couple thousand words and then forgetting about it for a long I finally picked it up again to finish, the whole story had been altered. This here is the final product. I hope you liked it, which I suspect you did, seeing as it's a lengthy fic and you stuck with it till the end... I can only hope it was an enjoyable reading... Please **review** and let me know..._

_The poem that inspired the title for this story is one I read on Mr. Leonard Nimoy's twitter... He said it helped him in his youth. I often read it again, in the hopes that it will help me with mine..._

**_LLAP_ **


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